“My shoes are very squeaky; I’m sorry.” 

I realized her shoes were indeed “very squeaky” as she walked past the place where I sat with my journal.  They were white and looked rather mushed, too.  But as their rubber squeak receded down the sidewalk, I was not at all sorry to have heard it.  Rather, I felt greatly glad that squeaky shoes existed in the world. 

No doubt it is a trial to walk with squeaking footfall on brick sidewalks past serene girls who write with silver pens.  No doubt it is a trial to have one’s feet announce their arrival before one can speak.  But there is equally little doubt that it is a delight to live in a world wherein strangers apologize, quite out of the blue, for their shoes.  I am delighted.

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